


Miss me?

by darkandstormyslash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boss is back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss me?

Sebastian does get drunk. At first. But after a few months it gets old, and really, he needs to be doing things. The boss knew that. The boss always gave him things to do, right up until the last moment when he was stalking John Watson with a long-sight rifle and bloody well felt the bullet that went through Jim’s skull.

He damn well can’t stay in London, so he moves about as far away as he can get. Mercenary work in Colombia. It’s easy, straightforward, and after a while he begins to enjoy the soothing simplicity of it. The boss was many things, but simple was never one of them, and although there’s still a massive aching hole somewhere deep in his chest he finds he can smoke, laugh, and have a few beers. He finds he can actually enjoy himself again.

Three years. Three long years of slowly healing and then his phone rings. 

“Miss me?”

He recognises the voice. Instantly. Slowly he tugs a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and taps them on the table. “Might have done. Thought you were dead.”

“Oh Tiger…” He’s thankful that his shaking hands aren’t visible down the phone as he sticks a cigarette in his mouth. “Did you think I’d die that easily? What sort of state are you in.”

He lights a match with one hand, flicking it along the side of the box, watching it spark into life. “I’ve started smoking again.”

“Well we’ll break you of that one fairly quickly. Get yourself to Kings Cross Station Tiger.”

He gives a grin then, lighting the cigarette and shaking the match out. His body is practically vibrating with adrenaline, but he’s in the eye of the storm now, his mind calm and still but if he moves an inch in any direction all hell will break loose. “No can do boss - I’m in Colombia." 

And then he knows it’s not a recording made in the past to fuck with his mind. Because there is no universe in which Moriarty would foresee himself having to pause and then say in a disbelieving voice. "What the fuck are you doing in Colombia.”

“Killing people for money.” He looks up and the barman quickly stops listening in to his conversation and hurries away. 

“Oh for…” He can hear the snapped frustration in the boss’s voice. It’s enough to send him trembling slightly out of the calm centre into the waiting chaos, and although he tries to keep his voice calm he’s certain it trembles.

“Should’ve put me in stasis boss. Didn’t realise I was meant to be waiting in the flat in my wedding dress like Mrs-Fucking-Havisham. Do you want to give me a few reasons why I should bother coming back?”

There’s a moment of silence and then when the boss responds it’s in Business Mode. No more fooling around, no more games and chatter. The kind of voice that gets used just before someone gets shot in the face. “What do you want Moran?”

He takes a long deep drag of the cigarette and then throws himself off the cliff, “Blow job boss.”

A small silence then a tetchy, “Fine. Get yourself back here as soon as possible, Moran, or you’ll regret it.”

The phone clicks off. He stares at it for a long while then leaves the bar and books the second quickest plane back. No point letting the boss get everything his own way. At Heathrow Airport he’s pulled aside by a burly security man and given the deepest, most painful and intensive internal cavity search he’s ever experienced. He limps out swearing, straight into a group of five thugs who try to smack the hell out of him. By the time the boss calls him, three of them are dead and from the side alley he’s hiding in he can hear the ambulance arriving for the other two.

“Miss me Moran?”

He grins. His body is aching, there’s blood over his knuckles and most of it is his. By now his emotions are like ground glass - so repeatedly broken that there’s no more breaking them, just a fine shining dust coating over the hole Moriarty’s death wrenched in his life.

“Am I getting that blow job or what?”

“Don’t be an idiot Tiger. Get to King’s Cross. Now.”

He never does get the blow job. But by the time they’ve set the night on fire, he doesn’t even care.


End file.
